THOU noblest monument of Albion's isle! Whether by Merlin's aid, from Scythia's shore To Amber's fatal plain Pendragon bore, Huge frame of giant hands, the mighty pile, T'entomb his Britons slain by Hengist's guile*: Or Druid priests, sprinkled with human gore, Taught mid thy massy maze their mystic lore: Or Danish chiefs, enrich'd with savage spoil, To Victory's idol vast, an unhewn shrine,

Rear'd the rude heap; or, in thy hallow'd round,

Repose the kings of Brutus' genuine line:

Or here those kings in solemn state were crown'd:

Studious to trace thy wondrous origin,
We muse on many an ancient tale renown'd.

My rustic Muse her votive chaplet brings; Unseen, unheard, O Gray, to thee she sings, While slowly pacing through the church-yard dew,

At curfew-time, beneath the dark green yew, Thy pensive Genius strikes the moral strings: Or, borne sublime on Inspiration's wings, Hears Cambria's bards devote the dreadful cle: Of Edward's race, with murders foul defil'd.

Can aught my pipe to reach thine ear essay? No, bard divine! For many a care beguil d By the sweet magic of thy soothing lay, For many a raptur'd thought, and vision wil, To thee this strain of gratitude I pay.

In marks obscure, of his immortal peers. Tho' join'd by magic skill, with many a rhyt

The Druid frame unhonor'd falls a prey To the slow vengeance of the wizard Time,

And fade the British characters away;

Yet Spenser's page, that chants in verse sublime Those chiefs, shall live unconscious of deesy.

To the River Lodon.

AH! what a weary race my feet have run, Since first I trod thy banks with alders crown And thought my way was all through y ground,

A BRACE of sinners, for no good,

Were order'd to the Virgin Mary's shrine, Who at Loretto dwelt, in wax, stone, wood, And in a fair white wig look'd wondrous fine.

Fifty long miles had those sad rogues to travel, With something in their shoes much worse than gravel;

In short, their toes so gentle to amuse,
The priest had order'd peas into their shoes :
A nostrum famous in old Popish times
For purifying souls that stunk with crimes;
A sort of apostolic salt,
That Popish parsons for its powers exalt
For keeping souls of sinners sweet,
Just as our kitchen salt keeps meat.

The knaves set off on the same day,
Peas in their shoes, to go and pray;

But very different was their speed, I wot:
One of the sinners gallop'd on
Light as a bullet from a gun;

The other limp'd as if he had been shot.

One saw the VIRGIN Soon-peccavi cried― Had his soul whitewash'd all so clever; Then home again he nimbly hied,

Made fit with saints above to live for ever.

In coming back, however, let me say,
He met his brother-rogue about half-way,
Hobbling with outstretch'd bum and bending
knees,

Damning the souls and bodies of the peas:
His eyes in tears, his cheeks and brows in sweat,
Deep sympathizing with his groaning feet.

"How now," the light-toed, whitewash'd pilgrim broke,

"You lazy lubber?"

"Odds curse it!" cried the other, "'tis no My feet, once hard as any rock, [joke:

"Are now as soft as blubber.

"Excuse me, Virgin Mary, that I swear-
As for Loretto, I shall not get there :
No! to the Devil my sinful soul must go,
For damme if I han't lost ev'ry toe.
But, brother sinner, do explain
How 'tis that you are not in pain ;

With cheerfulness the eighteen pence he paid; And proudly to himself in whispers said,

"This rascal stole the razors, I suppose.

"No matter, if the fellow be a knave: Provided that the razors shave,

It certainly will be a monstrous prize." So home the clown with his good fortune went, Smiling, in heart and soul content,

And quickly soap'd himself to ears and eyes. Being well lather'd from a dish or tub, Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub, Just like a hedger cutting furze; 'Twas a vile razor! then the rest he triedAll were impostors Ah!" Hodge sigh'd,

"I wish my eighteen pence within my purse." In vain to chase his beard, and bring the graces, He cut, and dug, and winc'd, and stamp'd, and swore;

Brought blood, and danc'd, blasphein'd, and made wry faces,

And curs'd each razor's body o'er and o'er. His MUZZLE, form'd of opposition stuff, Firm as a Foxite, would not lose its ruff:

So kept it-laughing at the steel and suds. Hodge, in a passion, stretch'd his angry jaws, Vowing the direst vengeance, with clench'd claws,

On the vile CHEAT that sold the goods. "Razors !—a damn'd, confounded dog!— Not fit to scrape a hog;"

Hodge sought the fellow, found him, and be

'Qui non moderabitur iræ, Infectum volet esse, dolor quod suaserit et mens, Dum pœnas odio per vim festinat inulto." HOR.

A SQUIRE of Wales, whose blood ran higher
Than that of any other squire,
Hasty and hot; whose peevish honor
Reveng'd each slight was put upon her;
Upon a mountain's top one day
Expos'd to Sol's meridian ray,

He fum'd, he rav'd, he curs'd, he swore,
Exhal'd a sea at ev'ry pore;
At last, such insults to evade,
Sought the next tree's protecting shade;
Where as he lay dissolv'd in sweat,
And wip'd off many a rivulet,
Off in a pet the beaver flies,

And flaxen wig, time's best disguise,
By which folks of maturer ages

Vie with smooth beaux, and ladies' pages;
Though 'twas a secret rarely known,
Ill-natur'd age had cropp'd his crown,
Grubb'd all the covert up, and now
A large smooth plain extends his brow.
Thus as he lay with numskull bare,
And courted the refreshing air,
New persecutions still appear;
A noisy fly offends his ear.
Alas! what man of parts and sense
Could bear such vile impertinence?
Yet, so discourteous is our fate,
Fools always buz about the great.
This insect now, whose active spite
Teas'd him with never-ceasing bite,
With so much judgment play'd his part,
He had him both in tierce and carte:
In vain with open hands he tries
To guard his ears, his nose, his eyes;
For now at last, familiar grown,
He perch'd upon his worship's crown,
With teeth and claws his skin he tore,
And stuff'd himself with human gore:
At last, in manners to excel,
Untruss'd a point, some authors tell.

The furious squire, stark mad with rage?
Impatient at the foul disgrace
From insect of so mean a race,
And plotting vengeance on his foe,
With double fist he aims a blow.
The nimble fly escaped by flight,
And skipp'd from this unequal fight.
Th' impending stroke with all its weight
Fell on his own beloved pate.

Thus much he gain'd by this adventurous deed;
He foul'd his fingers, and he broke his head.

AT Jenny Mann's, where heroes meet, And lay their laurels at her feet; The modern Pallas, at whose shrine They bow, and by whose aid they dine; Colonel Brocade, among the rest, Was every day a welcome guest. One night as carelessly he stood, Cheering his reins before the fire (So every true-born Briton should) Like that he chaf'd and fum'd with ire. Jenny," said he, " 'tis very hard, That no man's honor can be spar'd; If I but sup with Lady Duchess, Or play a game at ombre, such is The malice of the world, 'tis said, Although his Grace lay drunk in bed, 'Twas I that caus'd his aching head. If Madame Doodle would be witty, And I am summon'd to the city, To play at blindman's-buff or so, What won't such hellish malice do? If I but catch her in a corner, Humph! 'tis "Your servant, Colonel Horner." But rot the sneering fops, if e'er I prove it, it shall cost them dear; I swear by this dead-doing blade, Dreadful examples shall be made. What, can't they drink bohea and cream, But (d-n them) I must be their theme? Other men's business let alone, Why should not coxcombs mind their own?"

As thus he rav'd with all his might (How insecure from fortune's spite, Alas, is ev'ry mortal wight!)

To show his ancient spleen to Mars,
Fierce Vulcan caught him by the a―;
Stuck to his skirts, insatiate varlet!
And fed with pleasure on the scarlet.
Hard by, and in the corner, sate
A bencher grave, with looks sedate,
Smoking his pipe, warm as a toast,
And reading over last week's Post;
He saw the foe the fort invade,

And soon smelt out the breach he made;
But not a word—a little sly

He look'd, 'tis true, and from each eye
A sidelong glance sometimes he sent,

To bring him news, and watch th' event.
At length, upon that tender part
Where honor lodges (as of old
Authentic Hudibras has told)
The blust'ring colonel felt a smart ;
Sore griev'd for his affronted bum,
Frisk'd, skipp'd, and bounc'd about the room:
Then turning short-" Zounds, sir," he cries;
"Pox on him! had the fool no eyes?
What! let a man be burnt alive?"

I am not, Sir, inquisitive,"
Replied Sir Gravity, "to know
Whate'er your Honor's pleas'd to do:
If you will burn your tail to tinder,
Pray what have I to do to hinder?
Other men's business let alone,

Why should not coxcombs mind their own?"
Then, knocking out his pipe with care,
Laid down his penny at the bar;
And wrapping round his frieze surtout,
Took up
his crabtree and walk'd out.

The Frog's Choice. SOMERVILLE.
Ω πόποι, οἷον δή νυ Θεοὺς βροτοὶ ἀπιόωνται.
Εξ ήμεων γάρ φασι κάκ' ἔμμεναι· οἱ δὲ καὶ αὐτοὶ
Εφῆσιν ἀτασθαλίησιν ὑπὲρ μόρον ἄλγι ̓ ἔχουσιν.
In a wild state of nature, long

The frogs at random liv'd,
The weak a prey unto the strong,
With anarchy oppress'd and griev'd.
At length the lawless rout,
Taught by their suff'rings, grew devout;
An embassy to Jove they sent,

And begg'd his highness would bestow
Some settled form of government,

A king to rule the fens below.
Jove, smiling, grants their odd request:
A king, th' indulgent pow'r bestow'd,
Such as might suit their genius best:
A beam of a prodigious size,

With all its cumbrous load,
Came tumbling from the skies.
The waters dash against the shore,
The hollow caverns roar :

The rocks return the dreadful sound,
Convulsions shake the ground.
The multitude with horror fled,
And in his oozy bed
Each skulking coward hid his head.
When all is now grown calm again,
And smoothly glides the liquid plain,
A frog more resolute and bold,
Peeping with caution from his hold,

Recover'd from his first surprise,
As o'er the wave his head he popp'd,
He saw, but scarce believ'd his eyes.
On the same bank where first he dropp'd,
Th' imperial lubber lies,

Stretch'd at his case, careless, content.
"Is this the monarch Jove has sent,"
Said he, "our warlike troops to lead?
Ah, 'tis a glorious prince indeed!
By such an active general led,

The routed mice our arms shall dread,
Subdued shall quit their claim:
Old Homer shall recant his lays,
For us new trophies raise,

Sing our victorious arms, and justify our fame!"
Then laughing impudently loud,

He soon alarm'd the dastard crowd.
The croaking nations with contempt
Behold the worthless indolent.

On wings of winds swift scandal flies,
Libels, lampoons, and lies,

Hoarse treasons, tuneless blasphemies.
With active leap at last upon his back they stride,
And on the royal loggerhead in triumph ride.

Once more to Jove they prayers address'd,
And once more Jove grants their request;
A stork he sends, of monstrous size,
Red lightning flashes in his eyes.
Rul'd by no block, as heretofore,
The gazing crowds press'd to his court;
Admire his stately mien, his haughty port,
And only not adore.
Addresses of congratulation,

Sent from each loyal corporation,

Full fraught with truth and sense, Exhausted all their eloquence.

But now, alas! 'twas night; kings must have

meat:

The Grand Vizier first goes to pot;

Three Bassas next, happy their lot!
Gain'd Paradise by being eat.

"And this," said he, " and this is mine,
And this by right divine :"
In short, 'twas all for public weal,
He swallow'd half a nation at a meal.

Again they beg Almighty Jove
This cruel tyrant to remove.
With fierce resentment in his eyes,
The frowning Thunderer replies:
"Those evils which yourselves create,
Rash fools! ye now repent too late;
Made wretched by the public voice,
Not through necessity, but choice!
Begone! nor wrest from Heaven some heavier

curse:

Better bear this, this Stork, than worse."

MORAL.

Oppress'd with happiness, and sick with ease, Not Heaven itself our fickle minds can please. Fondly we wish, cloy'd with celestial store, The leeks and onions which we loath'd before: Still roving, still desiring, never pleas'd, With plentystarv'd,and e'enwith health diseas'd,

Two comrades, as grave authors say
(But in what chapter, page, or line,
Ye critics, if ye please, define),
Had found an oyster in their way.
Contest and foul debate arose :

Both view'd at once with greedy eyes, Both challeng'd the delicious prize, And high words soon improv'd to blows. Actions on actions hence succeed,

Each hero's obstinately stout,

Green bags and parchments fly about, Pleadings are drawn, and counsel fec'd. The parson of the place, good man! Whose kind and charitable heart In human ills still bore a part, Thrice shook his head, and thus began: "Neighbours and friends, refer to me This doughty matter in dispute, I'll soon decide th' important suit, And finish all without a fee. Give me the oyster then-'tis well"— He opens it, and at one sup Gulps the contested trifle up, And smiling, gives to each a shell. "Henceforth let foolish discord cease, Your oyster's good as c'er was eat; I thank for you my dainty treat; God bless you both, and live in peace."

MORAL.

Ye men of Norfolk and of Wales,

From this learn common sense;
Nor thrust your neighbours into jails
For ev'ry slight offence.
Banish those vermin of debate

That on your substancè feed;
The knaves who now are serv'd in plate
Would starve, if fools agreed,

Нок.

Epitaph on Miss Basnet, in St. Pancras Church-yard,

Ode.

Go, spotless Honor, and unsullied Truth; Go, smiling Innocence and blooming Youth; Go, female Sweetness, join'd with manly Sense; Go, winning Wit, that never gave offence; Go, soft Humanity, that bless'd the poor; Go, saint-eyed Patience, from Affliction's door; Go, Modesty, that never wore a frown; Go, Virtue, and receive thy heavenly crown. Not from a stranger came this heart-felt verse; The friend inscribes thy tomb whose tears bedew'd thy hearse.

THOMSON.

TELL me, thou soul of her I love,
Ah! tell me whither art thou fled?
To what delightful world above,
Appointed for the happy dead?
Or dost thou free at pleasure roam,

And sometimes share the lover's woe;
Where, void of thee, his cheerless home
Can now, alas! no comfort know?
O! if thou hov'rest round my walk,
While, under every well-known tree,
I to thy fancied shadow talk,

And every tear is full of thee: Should then the weary eye of grief, Beside some sympathetic stream, In slumber find a short relief,

O visit thou my scothing dream!

On Time. ANON.

E'EN while the careless, disencumber'd soul Sinks all dissolving into pleasure's dream, E'en then to Time's tremendous verge we roll With headlong haste along life's surgy stream. Can gaiety the vanish'd years restore,

Or on the withering limbs fresh beauty shed, Or soothe the sad, inevitable hour,

Or cheer the dark, dark mansions of the dead? Ah! beauty's bloom avails not in the grave, Youth's lofty mien, nor age's awful grace: Moulder alike unknown the prince and slave, Whelm'd in th' enormous wreck of human race!

The thought-fix'd portraiture, the breathing bust,

The arch with proud memorials array'd, The long-liv'd pyramid, shall sink in dust, To dumb oblivion's ever-desert shade.

When sleep forsook my open eye,
Who was it sung sweet lullaby,
And rock'd me that I should hot cry?

My Mother.
Who sat and watch'd my infant head,
When sleeping on my cradle bed,
And tears of sweet affection shed?

My Moder
When pain and sickness made me cry,
Who gaz'd upon my heavy eye,
And wept for fear that I should die?
My Mother.

Who drest my doll in clothes so gay,
And taught me pretty how to play,
And minded all I had to say?

My Mother.